You walk home just a little after sunset, drenched in sweat and exhausted, feeling like some kind of half-human fuck-golem. You really need a shower.
You left Whitney lying naked and totally fucked-out in the grass under the bleachers, babbling something inaudible, cum pooling underneath her. Rose had left you with enough pent-up sexual need to go four times with Whitney -- but that was your limit. You're not superman.
Of all the rooms in your house that don't have locks and really should, the upstairs bathroom ranks first. You swing open the door to find your older sister Cerise sitting on the toilet, chin on fist.
"Get the fuck out," she says, nonchalant. "Occupied."
You ignore her and look yourself over in the mirror above the sink. Your face is caked with grime from Rose's dirty socks. You look like you did a bad job of scrubbing away blackface.
"You smell like foot cheese and pussy," Cerise says.
"A person with a bedroom like yours shouldn't be complaining about that" you say, running a wet washcloth over your face. "Glass houses and such."
"Seriously, Alabaster. I'm on the toilet. Can you wait half a fucking minute to use the sink?"
"Nope." You glance over at her for a moment and then resume wiping off your face. "Anyway, why the sudden modesty? I'm surprised you're not streaming this live on the internet. You show them everything else you do."
"I'd just prefer it if you didn't wave the results of your latest perverted experiment with Whitney right under my nose," Cerise says.
You step away from the sink and take off your shirt, throwing it in a nearby hamper. "This one wasn't with Whitney," you say, winking. "It was with Rose."
"What."
You unbuckle your pants and pull them down. "Rose fucked me. She has some weird thing with feet. Crazy girl, that one."
"You fucked ROSE?" Cerise is more upset over this than your sudden disrobing.
"No. Rose fucked me. Try to pay attention. I didn't ask her to do it." You kick off your boxers. Naked, you kneel down and turn on the faucet of the bathtub. You hold a hand underneath the stream to monitor the temperature. "And plus, it was just a blowjay."
"Rose Mallory is the devil," Cerise says. "You fucked the devil. I can't believe you!" She grabs a hairbrush from the nearby countertop and chucks it at you. You deflect it, turning your face away. When you look back, she chucks a can of hairspray at you. You bat this away as well.
"Fucking chillax," you say. "I'm a victim of rape here. What I need right now is support and understanding."
"Like fuck you are! What you need right now is to get your dick kicked in!" She tosses a can of Axe body spray at you.
You pull the mechanism in the tub to activate the shower. Cerise finally stops throwing things at you, realizing for the first time that you intend to bathe right now. She quickly grabs a wad of tissue and wipes her pussy, flushing. She jumps to her feet, trying to tug her pants and her shirt off at the same time.
The result of this spastic haste is to send her tumbling face-first into the wall opposite the toilet. She lands with a concussion-worthy thud.
"Whoa there, cowpoke."
"Oooof-- fffff--" Cerise fights against gravity to stand, using the wall for support, pants still around her feet. She steps out of them and rubs her forehead where she banged it. "I have dibs on the shower, you skeezy scum-fucker. You'll have to wait."
"No way--" you say. Cerise cuts you off by kicking you in the shin, forcing you to jump back.
She pulls her shirt off next. Big surprise: she's not wearing a bra. Now she's as naked as you.
Fights over who gets to use the shower have happened since time immemorial in the Soliloquy house. The water heater supplies maybe 10 good minutes of hot water. For the next hour after that, anyone who wants to shower has to do so in ice until the heater catches back up.
Cerise's kick was a brilliant maneuver in the war for shower-control. With her path cleared, she leaps into the tub and pulls the pebble glass door shut behind her.
[ ] Fine. Let her have the shower if she wants it.
[X] Sho ga nai. We'll have to shower together.
You grab the shower door's handle. Cerise tries desperately to hold it closed from the inside, but with nothing for her to grip on her end, it's a losing battle. The door slides open past her flattened palms with the squeak of glass against wet flesh.
She stomps her feet, sending her tits jiggling. "God! You are such a little shit!"
You step into the shower over her protests and shut the door again.
This is far from the first time you've shared the shower, but it's been a few years. It feels a little strange.
You stand underneath the showerhead, staring at nothing in particular -- but from Cerise's perspective, you realize, it must look like you're staring directly at her naked body.
"Face forward, asshole," Cerise says.
"Oh, please," you groan. "As if I haven't seen everything you've got to offer." Cerise puts her hands on your shoulders and bodily guides you through a 180 so that you face the wall. You sneer. "You're about due for another waxing, by the way."
"I don't want to hear about it from you. Ever hear of manscaping? It's not just for gay guys anymore. And you're a faggot anyway, so."
You glance down at the rim of the tub on your end. There isn't any body wash or shampoo. You try to turn around to grab the bottles from where they sit on the rim at the back, but Cerise forces you forward again.
"How am I supposed to clean myself?" you complain.
"Christ. You're absolutely hopeless."
You hear the clack of an opening shampoo lid and the splurt of Cerise dispensing it into her hands. Wordlessly, she starts lathering your hair from behind.
"Did you go mental?" you ask. "I'm not one of your--"
"Shut up. When was the last time you washed your hair properly?"
All ten of her fingers massaging your scalp feel weirdly soothing. As if they're working in tandem and yet separately. You close your eyes and decide to roll with it. She tilts your head under the stream and rinses your hair for you, too.
You bask in the steam and warmth all around you. The intimate contact makes the shower feel somehow more comforting, even if the person standing behind you is your own sister. Your mind is beginning to feel fuzzy.
When Cerise dispenses a handful of body wash and starts soaping your back, you don't protest. She doesn't say anything, either.
And when she snakes her arms under yours to soap your front, you still don't protest, but you become acutely aware of three facts.
One: her breasts are directly against your back, the nipples poking your shoulder blades.
Two: you're harder than you've been at any point in recent memory.
Three: there's no way she's not aware of these previous two facts as well.
Cerise's hands start high, around your collarbone, and slowly work their way down, tracing lazy ellipses. She rests a chin on your shoulder. Involuntarily, the two of you sway a little, like two dancers holding each other in reverse.
"I really can't believe you're fucking Rose."
"I was telling the truth when I said it wasn't consensual."
There's a long pause as Cerise lathers you more than is strictly necessary. Her wandering hands are to your ribs now.
"What you have with Whitney is consensual, though."
"Sort of."
"I thought you'd be a virgin forever. How does a loser like you get so many girls after him?"
You force a laugh that sounds fake even to you. "Well, I couldn't let you out-slut me."
"Fuck you. And don't come crying to me when you get the clap."
You bicker like this even now, but there's no force behind it. Cerise's hands are at the bottom of your stomach. She could brush her fingertips against your erection with a simple re-angling of her wrist. It suddenly occurs to you that you've been staring into each other's eyes intently for at least the past few minutes.
[X] Kiss her.
[ ] Do nothing.
You do it without thinking. You just close your eyes and lean into it.
For how long -- ten seconds, a minute, three? -- Cerise returns your kiss.
She tastes like cherry, fittingly.
Your tongues slip over one another and explore the other's mouth. You feel her whimper into you, and you breathe it deeply.
But then Cerise's eyes bulge open with the realization of what the two of you are doing. She shoves you forward, off of her, flings the shower door open and flees. Her wet feet patter across the bathroom tile and escape down the hall. You hear the muffled sound of her bedroom door slamming.
You can't think straight -- you're half delirious. Your vision is blurred with lust. You fall to your haunches and jerk yourself off underneath the running water, your orgasm mind-bending and toe-curling even though you left four loads inside Whitney less than an hour ago.
Just a few seconds later, the water heater's 10-minute supply gives out. For a minute or so you sit in the rushing, freezing water, your skin tightening up and turning to gooseflesh, every trace of Cerise's warmth leaving.
You shut the water off and weakly stand. You shuffle out of the bathroom without even bothering to towel yourself off.
In the hall, you knock on Cerise's door. No answer. "Cerise," you say softly. No answer. You try the handle but it's locked. "Cerise!" you call again, leaning your forehead against the jamb. No answer.
You head for your room, still stark naked. Passing by, Mom happens to see you from the bottom of the staircase. "Alabaster!" she cries, hand to her mouth. You ignore her as you slip into your bedroom.
You collapse in bed. But sleep won't come. You toss and turn for hours. The steady buzz of Cerise's most powerful vibrator lasts all night and deep into the early hours of morning.
Needless to say, Cerise doesn't burst through your door that morning to get you up. Instead, it's Whitney throwing pebbles against your window that finally rouses you from the interstitial space between waking and sleep. You glumly clothe yourself and go outside to meet her.
"Yesterday was amazing, Ally~" Whitney says, pecking you on the cheek. "I'll be scooping your jizz out of my pussy for the next week."
"Yeah," you mumble.
Whitney looks a little uncertain, as if she can't reconcile your insatiable appetite yesterday with your zombie-like disinterest today.
The commute to school is made even worse by twin appearances.
First comes Stackleford to complain about his tumultuous home life. He follows a couple paces behind you and Whitney, huffing and puffing, trying to catch up. "So my fucking parental units got Obamacare and-- huh huh huh--" he gasps to catch his breath. "So these fucking fascist doctors want to tell me I'm like, prediabetic or-- huh huh -- or something? Fucking nignog president, I swear to god..."
"I don't think Obama made you diabetic," Whitney observes. Shockingly astute today.
"PRE diabetic," Stackleford corrects indignantly. "Anyway, how am I-- huh huh huh -- how am I supposed to stop drinking soda?"
You consider whether a jury would hold you liable for pushing him into traffic if you recorded this conversation.
You come out of this reverie as you round the corner of the school and step onto campus. Because then comes unfortunate appearance number two: Rose Mallory and her consort of preppy student council thugs. She smirks at you knowingly.
"Good morning, Alabaster," Rose says in her typical honey-sweet voice. "I think you three are a little late to your first class."
You check the time on your cell. She's right: the bell for home room rang five minutes ago.
Rose tsks. She actually fucking tsks at you. "I'm afraid we'll have to give you all citations for that. Cody?"
Rose snaps her fingers and one of the wimpier looking student councilmen starts filling out pink slips.
Whitney kicks at the dirt and glowers. "Do you have to be in cunt-mode all the time? We're like two seconds late. Cut us a break."
Rose smiles. "Don't use such language. It's objectifying and demeaning."
Cody, the little poofter, starts handing you your slips.
"This is balls," Stackleford pouts. "Total balls."
"You really should watch yourself," Rose says to Whitney, ignoring Stackleford. "You're on a razor-thin line here. You could be kicked from the soccer team if there's anymore disciplinary problems."
The corner of Whitney's mouth twitches, but she doesn't reply.
Rose looks to you now. "I trust our arrangement is still on? You'll be coming to the band room after school?" The rest of the student council share anxious, knowing glances with one another at this. They hurry off, abashed. Rose waits expectantly for her answer. Her smile now is more than a little wolfish.
"Sure," you say, playing it cool.
"Wonderful," Rose beams. "Now -- you three hurry along."
She goes.
A few moments later, Stackleford splits off from you and Whitney to head for his first class. Now alone, Whitney grabs you by the wrist in an empty hall.
"What was that crap about coming to the band room?"
You shrug, and decide honesty is the best approach. You tell her everything about Rose's hijinks yesterday.
"So that's why..." Whitney breathes. "You want to get even with her."
"Sorry about breaking rule 1," you say.
"It's not your fault," Whitney says. "We can--" she looks around to make sure no one is looking. She's still holding your wrist. "We can move our schedule for that up to today. Let's do her today, after school."
Whitney kisses you before you can reply, and her tongue has this odd way of breaking down any protests you might have to such intimate affection.
"I have to get a few things from home," Whitney says. "This is going to be great! Meet me at lunch. We need to plan."
You watch her jog away, her tight ass bouncing in her spats.
[ ] Scope Rose's movements out.
[X] Play it safe -- go to class.
Your instinct tells you that Rose is up to something, but she has a preternatural sense of your own movements on campus, and eyes everywhere in the form of other council members. There's no way you can win a game of espionage.
You attend classes normally, the very model of punctuality and attentiveness. You don't need her getting suspicious in the eleventh hour.
During lunch, you leave campus with Whitney for a 50s-style hamburger joint up the road from North High. You share a large malted shake with two flexy straws, Whitney leaning across the table to siphon her share. It's the picturesque image of teen romance in America -- except that you're discussing how to rape someone.
"It's like spy vs. spy," Whitney explains. "Rapist vs. rapist. You gotta out-rape her or you're done for."
You shrug. "She's a lot stronger than she looks. We need to make sure we get the jump on her. That's the key."
"Forget about strength. That's the least of our problems. What sketches me out is that she's got a leg up on experience. She wouldn't carry around chloroform rags if she hadn't been to the rape rodeo a couple-three times."
"I wonder how many other people she's done it to..."
Whitney slurps at the shake. She sits back in her seat and stretches, thinking. "The whole student council, definitely-- that's a given. The way they suck up to her, there's no way she doesn't have them on a solid schedule of sexual violation. Probably a few of the teachers... have you seen how weirded out Mr. Danmore gets around her? Like he's having some kind of epileptic fit anytime she comes near. Now we know why. Just think of all the disgusting, fucked-up shit she's done to him..." Whitney's voice is a little too wistful for your liking here.
You shake your head in appalled admiration, staring out the diner's enormous windows, watching the steady flow of traffic outside. Who could imagine that such depravity lurked in the mind of North High's most respectable student?
"Here," Whitney says. She grabs her bag from underneath the table and sets it on the formica. "I brought something for you."
You unlatch the bag's front strap and look inside, rifling around. It's a skirt, a whorish fishnet haltertop, lace panties, and a blonde wig.
"I don't follow," you say.
"It's for you. To wear."
"...Explain further."
"You know, when you go to meet her in the band room. It's, like, bait. Or something."
"...You lost me."
Whitney rolls her eyes and raps her knuckles on the tabletop. "I used to think Rose was this prim and proper bitch, right? I mean, everyone does. But now I have a read on her. I understand her. I understand how she thinks. I LIKE how she thinks."
You eye Whitney skeptically.
"The point is, if she sees you waiting for her in the band room with that outfit on, she's gonna fucking swoon. Game over, man. Hook, line, and sinker. She'll be yours for the taking. She won't know what hit her."
"Can you mix a few more metaphors in there?"
"She'll think it's fucking HOT. That's the point. And that makes victory all the better." Whitney leans in close and strokes your arm, purring. "Plus... it would be hot, wouldn't it? Seeing you violate her while wearing something like that..."
[ ] I'll wear it.
[X] No thanks.
You toss the bag across the table, beaning Whitney in the face. "Fuck that," you say. "I'm not gay."
"Since when is having sex with a girl gay?" Whitney pouts. "You're such a fag..."
Whitney reaches into the bag's back pouch and opens it just enough for you to peer inside. "I brought a few other... tools," she says, winking. "Things to make sure she melts like butter when the time is right."
You look in the bag. Dildos, vibrators, anal beads -- Whitney stocked a whole sex shop's worth of novelty devices for today.
"You're insane," you say, sitting back. "Has anyone told you that?"
Whitney lightly slaps your wrist. "You love it, you man-whore~"
You check the time. "I think we should be getting back to class."
"Oh sure, sure," Whitney says, sliding out from her booth and standing. She slings her tote bag of rape devices over her shoulder as if it's nothing. "You'll pay?"
"Of course. What would a lunch with you be without you mooching off my hospitality like the parasite you are?"
"Your fault. I wouldn't have made you pay if you were a girl..."
Whitney spins on her heels and leaves with a playful bounce to her step. This girl is going to kill you. When did she become such a beast?
In biology, Ms. Carte is subdued, and Vivian is absent. So is Spancer.
After 50 listless minutes of discussing haploid groups, Ms. Carte dismisses the class five minutes early, stopping abruptly in the middle of the lecture. "Just go," she says, waving her hand. "Who even gives a shit."
The students look around at one another, not certain they heard her correctly, but apparently she's serious. She plops down in her rolling chair and students begin to file out.
As you leave, Ms. Carte stops you. This is beginning to become an unwelcome ritual for 4th period.
"I don't have time," you say tersely, blowing her off.
"I'm sorry," Ms. Carte says. Her voice is small and weak. It's enough to give you pause as the last stragglers exit the room.
Now it's just you and her. You can't help feeling uneasy.
Ms. Carte opens the top drawer of her desk and takes out a mostly-empty bottle of Jack Daniels. She pours the rest in a tumbler and downs it, grimacing. "I lost several years of research yesterday," she says. "All gone. Down the drain."
"Great," you say. "Serves you right."
"What I did to you was wrong. Worse, it was pointless. When I got home, my apartment was destroyed. Everything I've been working for..."
Ms. Carte looks at you with the sunken-eyed expression of a war's last survivor. "It's over. Darkbloom won."
You shake your head. "Which one?"
Ms. Carte pulls a fresh bottle of Jack from another drawer. "Does it matter?" she asks, removing the cap. She eschews the tumbler to drink straight from the bottle.
"And now--" Ms. Carte motions at you with the bottle, laughing bitterly. "On top of everything else, that Rose Mallory twerp thinks she's got something to blackmail me over. Ha. Isn't that just delicious? That bitch is raping half the male faculty and she wants to cry impropriety at me."
You shrug.
"It's over, it's over," Ms. Carte repeats, bowing her head. "You want answers? Okay. Fine. Come to my apartment after school. Whenever you like. 119 Evergreen Road, Apartment 23. The door will be unlocked. Lock's broken."
You start to protest, but Ms. Carte stops you. "Here--" she says, and tosses something at you. You fumble to catch it. "That's a taser. Go test it, it works. If it makes you feel safer after what I did, you can keep it. Maybe it'll help you with Rose too. I think she has some kind of fixation on you-- well, it would make sense, anyway."
"I'm not coming to your house, you wanton harlot."
"Suit yourself," Ms. Carte says, and knocks back an enormous gulp. She stifles a belch and says nothing more, simply keeps her gaze fixed on the desk in front of her. You slip quietly out.
"Condoms?" you ask, looking through Whitney's bag of goodies. You and Whitney stand together in the empty band room just a few minutes before the last bell rings. The gloomy shadows of large brass instruments give the room an ominous ambiance.
"Ugh. Rule two," Whitney says, with the tone of someone issuing an important proclamation. "No protection. Ever. Rose needs to learn the joy of a raw dick. Everyone else we fuck, too. Raw dick or no dick!"
"I don't know about this," you say, suddenly timid. "This is crazy. This whole thing."
Whitney steps forward, invading your personal space. "Don't back out now," she moans, running a hand through your hair and nuzzling your crotch with her knee. "We've got a zapper now and everything..." She holds up Ms. Carte's taser and clicks the button, letting it arc for a few seconds to underline her point. "Rose is finished."
"We could go to jail."
"She'll never report it. How could she? Her reputation would be ruined."
You close your eyes and gulp.
"Don't you want this?" Whitney asks. "Didn't you ask for this?"
"Sure," you say. "But-- like this?"
"Come on, this is what you want. Say it. Say, 'I want to rape Rose Mallory.'"
"I want to... rape Rose Mallory," you say.
Whitney makes a fluttery gasp of exhilaration.
"I want to rape her too," Whitney murmurs lowly, as if confessing to a priest. She runs suckling kisses up and down your neck and whispers hotly in your ear. "I want to sit on her fucking face. I want to make her suck my cunt while you blow cum inside her. I want to make out with you while we use her to get ourselves off."
Whitney leans back and eyes you. All you can do in reply to these obscene words is stammer awkwardly. Whitney strokes your hand. "Of course, I'm getting ahead of myself. Strategy is your call. Rose is your meathole, you chose her. I don't have to join in if you don't want me to."
[ ] Go in solo.
[X] Tag team.
[ ] I'm sorry. I can't do it.
"Is this necessary?" you ask, turning your head to look in the general direction of where Whitney has concealed herself amongst the drum section. You yank at the handcuff keeping you tethered to conductor's podium, which is in turn tethered to the floor.
"It's all about verisimilitude!" Whitney hisses.
"Where did you learn that word?" you hiss back. "You're not smart enough to talk so fancy!"
"Shut the fuck up, dick-for-brains! You're gonna blow my cover!"
You sigh and face forward again, sitting cross legged against the podium. This feels a lot like how the condemned must feel waiting for execution.
And then you hear it. The tell-tale sound of Rose's heels clacking on the tile in the hall outside. They approach at a steady pace. And then the darkened room is lit up from the hall's fluorescents as the door squeals open. Rose's silhouetted form enters.
Rose shuts the door and saunters over to you. She quickly assesses the situation.
"My..." she breathes, hand daintily covering her mouth. "Did you do that to yourself?"
You yank again at the handcuffs. "This is what you like, right?"
Rose looks like she's about to faint from the excitement. But she composes herself, slowly swiping a hand down her blouse as if to straighten it. She kneels down and cups your face in her hands.
"That's exactly what I like, Alabaster," she says. "You're going to make such a wonderful pet. The best pet."
She stands again, smug. "Would it please you to know I'm not wearing any panties?"
You play the part and nod your head.
"Disgusting," Rose sneers. "Men are all the same. Even wimps like you."
Rose kicks off her shoes. It's clear that she's wearing the same socks from yesterday -- and who knows how many days she's worn them before that.
You cast nervous glances in your periphery, wondering when Whitney is going to come out. She wasn't supposed to let this escalate.
Rose grabs you by the chin, squeezing your cheeks and forcing you to look away from the drum section, up at her, in her eyes.
She spits -- a long slow blob of drool that descends viscously from her mouth before landing on your upturned face. At the same time, she rubs your crotch with her foot, applying more pressure than is comfortable. You involuntarily whimper.
"Is piggy scared?" Rose asks in a childish voice.
You say nothing.
Rose steps back. "Your girlfriend can come out from where she's hiding now."
Your heart sinks. Hearing Rose's words, Whitney leaps to her feet and charges madly, knocking over drum sets and cymbals in her wake. Amidst the horrible crashing noises of metal and percussives, Rose deftly sidesteps the attack. She grabs Whitney by the wrist and wrenches her arm behind her back.
Rose uses her free hand to yank at Whtiney's hair. Whitney is bent back into a limbo position by Rose's death grip, seemingly incapacitated. But Whitney grits her teeth and with a savage grunt she pulls her trump card out: Ms. Carte's taser. She jabs the taser into Rose's side, scoring a hit right to the kidneys.
There's the sickening "clvvvvv--" of Rose losing control of her vocal muscles. Her body tenses, and she falls on her back.
Now free, Whitney stumbles fully upright again and gives Rose two more zaps for good measure, this time to Rose's tummy. Rose convulses, foaming at the mouth. A foul-smelling puddle issues from her skirt: she's wetting herself.
"Bitch," Whitney breathes, running a palm through her hair. She stumbles over to you and unlocks your handcuffs.
"What the fuck was that?" You yell. "Why did you wait so long?"
"I was waiting for an opening!" Whitney says. "And look how close we came to really fucking this up. It's a good thing we had the taser."
You want to argue more, but your eyes fall upon Rose, her head turning back and forth as she writhes in delirious pain on the ground. The sight of this makes you forget the squabble.
Whitney winks at you. She grabs some nylon rope from her bag and hauls Rose's half-conscious body to the podium, where -- just a few moments ago -- you yourself were chained.
Working quickly, she secures Rose's hands to the podium, behind her back.
Rose blinks slowly, looking back and forth between you and Whitney. Her mind is slow to register this.
"Didn't know about the taser, huh?" Whitney gloats.
"Youuuu--" Rose slurs.
Whitney laughs. It's a laugh that says: the day is young, and there's so much left to do.
While you disrobe, Whitney has a little fun with the new acquisition. She slaps Rose in the face a few times, not very hard, but enough to make some satisfying thwacks.
"Come on, snap out of it," Whitney says. Rose stares at her through slitted eyes.
Even though she's still barely conscious, Rose's expression conveys pure, black hatred.
Whitney falls to hands and knees and holds her face centimeters from Rose's. "Wake up~" she says in a sing-song voice. "Wake up, you cunt~~"
Rose hauls back and spits in Whitney's face. Whitney is completely unfazed. She just laughs and spits right back. "We can do this all day," Whitney tells her. "I love it."
Rose slumps, her head lolling to one side. "Youuu will pay-- for thissh--" she groans.
You step forward, naked and throbbing. "She spat on me too," you tell Whitney. "Guess it's one of her things."
"Let's punish her," Whitney says. She holds you lightly by your erection, ushering you to stand directly in front of Rose's face.
Rose eyes your cock from the corner of her eye.
"Suck it," Whitney hisses. "Just like you did yesterday. Go on, you piece of fuckmeat."
"Fuck you," Rose moans, defiant even through her delirium.
Whitney grabs a handful of Rose's hair and rubs Rose's face in your crotch, trailing your dick leak all over Rose's sniveling face.
This wakes Rose up enough to send her yelling ,half-incoherently.
"Help!!" she cries. "Rape!! Rape!!!"
Whitney grimaces and stands up. She kicks Rose in the side to quiet her. Then she steps quickly out of her spats and panties. Bending down again, she wrenches Rose's jaw open and shoves the panties inside.
Whitney falls onto her naked butt, admiring her handiwork, rubbing her pussy furiously. "Isn't that better?" she asks you. "No more fucking noise."
She slips a couple fingers inside herself. She looks at Rose and says: "how does my cunt taste? Huh? Ohhh--" She shivers and mashes her thighs together as an orgasm courses through her.
You bend over and tug Rose's skirt off. You toss the sodden garment aside.
Rose's body is deliciously filled-out for a girl of only 15. She has fat thighs that give way admiringly to your touch. You grope her ass, and feel like your hand could get lost in all the smooth, supple flesh. You give her backside a sharp smack just for the hell of it and then tug Rose forward so you have better access to her lower holes.
"Which one first? Which one first?" Whitney asks with the enthusiasm of a child.
"Pussy first."
Whitney slithers up to watch the moment of entry from as close as she can get. One hand still works rapidly inside herself, making wet squelching noises. "Rape her!" she says, an insane lilt in her voice. "Fuck her up! Fill her belly with your cum!"
Rose goes bugeyed with some mixture of fear and hatred. She kicks weakly, but you hold her firmly by the ankles and shove yourself forward. Rose throws her head back and cries out through her gag, her every muscle straining against you. Her head turns wildly back and forth. She starts to cry.
You look down and notice a trickle of red on your cock. Whitney seems to notice it at the same time. She bucks her hips wildly with another orgasm. Then, clambering to her knees, she grabs hold of Rose's face and says: "how does it feel to get your virginity raped away? How does it feel to have a man's cock inside you for the first time?"
You saw in and out, establishing a rhythm, grinning evilly. Whitney has control and you let her run this show: this is great. She grabs for her bag and retrieves a really mean-looking flesh-colored dildo. She smacks Rose across the face with it to get her attention and then pulls the panties from Rose's mouth.
"I'll fucking kill you!!!" Rose screams in the brief moment she has to do so. But her protests are quickly drowned as Whitney jams the dildo down her throat as far as it will go. Rose's neck bulges from the foreign object's swift intrusion. She makes truly inhuman gagging sounds around the rubber dick.
"Choke on it, you fucking sow," Whitney says through gritted teeth. Whitney holds Rose's face steady so she's forced to watch you fucking her.
Rose is fleshy, but she's also quite small. If someone walked into the room, they would only see you humping, and not be able to tell there's a person underneath you. You hold Rose's shoulders and let the feeling of total dominance course through your veins. You can do anything you want. Rose is yours to use.
As you surge forward, a final bit of resistance breaks and you seat yourself as deep as you can go. The oozing tip of your cock brushes up against something hard and Rose whinnies, trying to squirm away.
"Oh my god," you groan. "I think I can reach her cervix."
Whitney cackles, fully demented and high on the adrenaline. "Ruin her," she growls. "Fuck her to death!"
You pick up the pace, making sure to bottom out inside Rose with every forward thrust. Her head bangs cruelly against the podium from the force of it. Every time you bottom out, you hit her cervix and smack the back of her head against the wood. She goes limp and pliant in your arms, her hot broken cunt nothing more than a hole for you to use to your heart's content.
Whitney pulls the dildo from Rose's mouth with a wet slurp. She straddles Rose's face and forces Rose's mouth forward. "Suck my asshole, you fucking cum rag!" Whitney says. She jams the slobbery dildo inside herself as she hunches forward and sits on Rose's face.
When Rose is apparently non-compliant, Whitney punches Rose in the kidney. Rose gags and a tiny trickle of piss squirts from her cunt. Then you hear the unmistakable sound of Rose lapping at Whitney's ass, wetly, like a dog.
"Fucking whore," Whitney says, masturbating. "What a fucking tongue. So wet and hot..."
You moan.
"Are you close, baby?" Whitney asks you. You nod. "Cum inside her!" Whitney goads. "Pump her full of fucking scum!"
Whitney falls forward awkwardly, trying to simultaneously maintain Rose's suckling mouth on her asshole while also kissing you. Just like she wanted. You return the kiss and paint Rose's womb with thick slime. Rose shudders with her entire body and howls insanely, the sound muffled by Whitney's ass. Rose's cunt convulses around you, milking you off. The three of you fall prone at the same time, a sweaty tangle of limbs.
GIRLS FUCKED: 2/6
While you get slowly dressed, Whitney lies on the ground with the fucked-out Rose beside her. Whitney busies herself by lazily testing various implements in various of Rose's holes. Rose just lies there, a dead look in her eyes.
"I think this will do," Whitney coos, shoving a small vibrating bullet into Rose's reddened, puffy hole.
"Hmm?" you ask. You see what Whitney is doing and smile. "Oh, you still want to do that?"
"Of course," Whitney says. "This is the best part."
"Rose," Whitney says softly. "You're going to wear this vibrator to school tomorrow. Okay? Ally will have the controller for it."
"Never," Rose says in a monotone voice. "I'm never going to submit to you psychotic rapists."
Whitney, still naked from the waist down, stands. She spreads her pussy lips and lets a little dribble of piss splash on Rose's face. Rose winces but has no other reaction.
"You can do what we say--" you tell her as Whitney pisses on her, "--or, you can deal with this being spread around campus..." You take Whitney's cellphone from her tote bag and snap some pictures of Rose, creampied and getting splashed with urine.
Rose simmers with barely-concealed rage but says nothing more. You and Whitney finish getting dressed and leave her like that, lying in a puddle of filth, stuffed with the vibrating bullet. You feel confident she'll follow orders.
The evening is just settling when you break away from Whitney and start for home.
You check your cell. There are texts from three people here.
First, an obviously drunk Ms. Carte:
>arre yuou coming over toniht? whatever i dont care
Then from Stackleford:
>suppp nigger?!!!? working on the bio project tonight, want 2 help????
And finally, several from your mom:
>Making white chocolate meringue again tonight.
>Not that I care if you have any.
>Cerise won't come down from her room and I have no one to help me.
>I'm not asking for your help.
>I won't even care if you don't come home tonight at all.
>Probably sleeping with some hussy who has diseases.
>Do whatever you want.
>I certainly don't care if you help me or not.
>So forget I even texted.
>Just to remind you, I'm making white chocolate meringue tonight.
You're tired, but you have time for at least onem ore engagement...
[ ] Ms. Carte.
[ ] Stackleford.
[ ] Mom.
[X] TIE VOTE: Ms. Carte/Mom
Ms. Carte's apartment complex is somehow shabbier than you imagined it. The gravel pathway that winds between units has random pieces of litter in it, and the community barbeques are mostly broken. Children play unattended, getting into fights.
You climb the stairs to Ms. Carte's apartment, #23. You knock, and the door opens on its own from the force of your knocking. You glance down at the jamb and see the mechanism meant to hold the door in place is busted in a mess of splinters.
"Come on in," Ms. Carte calls from her couch. "Not like I can stop you anyway..."
She has her heels kicked up on the table, knocking back a bottle of Jack that probably isn't the same one from class. She hiccups.
Ms. Carte's apartment smells faintly of lemon disinfectant and latex, the kind used in medical gloves. Her kitchen is immaculate, save for a mess of turned-over and broken glassware lying on the floor: the remains of vials, petri dishes, test tubes, syringes.
The living room is another story. It's full of clutter, stacks of papers and manilla folders, piled practically into mountains. It's hard to navigate as you shut the door and step closer.
To your surprise, Ms. Carte is watching "Jeopardy!"
"This river in China is commonly called one of the four cradles of civilization," Alex Trebek says.
"What is the Yellow River," Ms. Carte mumbles drunkenly.
You know she's right before a contestant on-screen buzzes in with the same response. Ms. Carte winks at you over another swig. "You aren't the only quiz bowl nerd around here," she says.
"Well?" Ms. Carte says, throwing her arms wide. "Make yourself at home. We're all dead anyway. We can at least be comfortable."
She swipes a pile of documents from the cushion beside her to make room for you. You sit down awkwardly next to her.
"Hey," Ms. Carte says conspiratorially. "You want to know what's a shit? Life. That's what's a shit." She pokes you in the chest. "I work SO hard to do the right thing, and what do I get? A reputation as a bitch and my life's work shot to hell. Teacher at a public school. Shit. It's all shit."
You lay a hand on Ms. Carte's bottle and take it from her. She struggles a bit to keep it but ultimately lets you have it.
"You said you'd give me answers," you say.
"Oh sure. Of course. Answeeers," Ms. Carte slurs. "Okay then, where do you want me to start, oh inquisitor?"
"What is Vivian?" you ask.
"A right cunt," Ms. Carte says.
"Is she-- human?"
"Fully, 100%. I've seen the video of her birth. David made me watch it, sick bastard. Then he asked me to marry him." She cackles like she's telling a favorite joke.
"Is she augmented?"
"Completely. Did it myself. She came out of that car wreck looking sort of like a cube. Or maybe a rhomboid, I don't know. Geometry. Fuck it." She takes a swig.
"I told David, can't do it-- the technology isn't tested. He said, if you don't then she'll die. I said, she's dead anyway. What you'll get isn't the Vivian who got in that car this morning. Well, lookie. I was right."
You slump your head.
"Why me?" you ask. "Why is Vivian so fixated on me?"
Ms. Carte laughs again. "It's completely retarded. I mean, honestly. You wouldn't believe me if I told you."
"That's what her dad said too."
"Well, look at that. We still agree on something." Ms. Carte grabs for the bottle, trying to clamber over you to get at it, but you keep it out of her reach. You push her back.
"What's the deal?" she pouts. "I can't drink to reconciliation and brotherhood?"
"Focus. Why me?"
"She wants to be like you. That's it."
"Huh?"
"Most girls her age want to be a Disney princess, or maybe a sports star, some Venus Williams type or something. But then there was 10 year old Vivian Darkbloom, recovering from literal fucking death in a hospital bed with nothing to watch but PBS broadcasts of the local quiz bowl championship. And so she decided you, Alabaster FUCKING Soliloquy, were some kind of bronzed god. It's absurd. You're the biggest loser probably in all of history. I mean, Jesus. Look at you. You stink like cum."
You're getting tired of all these girls in your life with noses like bloodhounds.
"That's it? She saw me in quiz bowl?"
Ms. Carte begins to go all droopy and tired. She seems to be nodding off. "That'ssh it--" she says, swaying. She leans against your chest for support. "--That's it. She can't reconcile the image in her head of you as the quiz god and you as the big fucking loser you actually are. Hence the insanity. So fucking David-- in his INFINITE wisdom... he startsssh dosh... he startshh..."
"Starts what?" you ask, trying to shake her awake. But she's quickly losing consciousness.
[X] Help her to bed.
[ ] Go home.
You do your best to guide Ms. Carte to her feet, but it's more like hauling dead weight. And she might be comely and buxom and all those wonderful things, but it means there's a lot of dead weight to haul.
It doesn't help that you have to fight your way through several skyscrapers of documents and printouts to get her there in one piece.
Ms. Carte's room is spartan. A bare bedside table, a bed with a simple white comforter, and nothing else but the closet. You lie her down slowly. She goes limp as she falls to the mattress.
"Alabaster..." she murmurs through the haze of sleep. "I'm sorry... I'm sorry for yesterday."
"Whatever. Don't go around raping people. Rape is wrong."
"I just wanted to save..." She trails off.
Then snores loudly. You grimace.
The snore apparently wakes her. Her eyes shoot open and come into focus as if seeing you for the first time. "Alabaster," she says. "You're not safe. You have to let me protect you, okay? And then you can protect me, too. Quid pro-- quid pro..." she starts to doze off again.
"Quid pro quo?" you say.
"Yeah... quid pro quo..."
[X] Quid pro quo.
[ ] More like quid pro no. #rekt
Ms. Carte smiles and then rolls over.
And snores again.
You leave her to her rest.
As you walk through the foyer, Mom blindsides you, swatting you in the face with a dishrag. Other than the humiliation, it doesn't really hurt.
"You're late," she says.
"I thought you didn't care if I came home at all."
Mom's right eye twitches. You decide to cut her off before she can launch into a tirade. "Are we still on for the meringue or what?" you ask, stretching your back. "I could... uh... help, if you want... I mean--"
"It's already done. I finished making it myself. Not that you would even care, of course."
You stare at your feet. A few days ago, you wouldn't have cared that she had to do it alone. Why do you feel a little ashamed now?
She stares you down hands on hips, but then her expression softens. "At least you can help me eat it," she says. "I'd never be able to finish it on my own."
You look up at her. "What about dad and Cerise?"
Mom shrugs. "They won't come out of their bedrooms. Your father is reading at his desk and I guess Cerise is still sick."
You crane your neck and look into the empty dining room.
There's two places meticulously set with silverware and china, and the only lighting is from scented candles. The pie sits in the middle of the table waiting to be served.
"But you weren't waiting for me," you say flatly, grinning.
"Of course not. I-- just felt like lighting some candles. That's all." She folds her arms and harrumphs.
You shrug. What could go wrong? Today's been crazy enough. You could go for a quiet dessert.
Mom pulls your chair out for you to sit before she seats herself. Call it reverse-chivalry.
"What IS that scent?" you ask, almost gagging on the perfume-y smell of the candles.
Mom serves you up a slice of the meringue. "I think it's supposed to be called sex on the beach?"
"It doesn't smell like any sex I've ever had."
Mom slugs you. You reel back. "That's child abuse," you say. "You just abused me. I could call Child Protective Services."
"You're not supposed to know about sex," she says, "if you're such an innocent child."
"Your continual abuse obviously caused me such psychic agony that I had to seek out carnal fulfillment with droves of anonymous women--"
She slugs you again.
"I'm going to sue you for emancipation," you say.
"You're 18. If you want to leave, there's the door."
"Maybe I will." You take a luscious bite of the pie and savor it.
Mom rests her chin on her hands and watches you for several long moments. She doesn't even touch her own plate. You wolf yours down hungrily and she serves you a second helping.
"I noticed that you and Cerise seem to be closer," she says finally.
You almost choke on your food.
"Don't be so embarrassed. I'm glad to see you two getting along for once. It's good for siblings to be close."
You try to shrug it off. "She's obnoxious. I mean, we're not even that close..."
Mom rests her hand on yours. "Cerise doesn't have a lot going on in her life. Please be nice to her."
You blush and concentrate on your food.
"I was thinking about a vacation," Mom continues after a lengthy silence. "Your father wants to cash his vacation time in this March. We could go to the Bahamas. How does that sound?" There's a pause, then: "--uh, not that I'm going to base this decision in any way on your input..."
"It sounds lame," you say. Mom looks a little deflated at this, so you add: "but it's probably not as lame as this house is, anyway... so-- whatever."
Mom smiles. She gives you thirds.
You eat, your mind wandering through various daydreams. These include a few too many mental images of Cerise in bikini for your liking. The white chocolate melts like cotton candy on your tongue. It's so rich that it almost makes you pucker, but you can't stop chewing.
"Is it good?" Mom asks. The question comes apropos of nothing, and you can't piece together what she means. "Is it good?" she repeats. "The meringue, I mean. I worked really hard on it."
[ ] It's great.
[ ] It's shit.
[X] Custom: You're great.
"Huh?" You drawl drowsily through a bite of food. "Oh. It's fine, I guess."
"Just fine?" she questions. She sounds hurt.
For once in your life, you decide to be nice to her. And at the worst possible moment: when you're too exhausted to speak clearly.
"No-- not just fine," you say, sighing. "You're great."
There's an awkward pause while your over-tired mind processes what you've just said. Finally catching yourself, you append: "I mean-- it's great. IT'S. The pie. Err-- not you-- I mean, not NOT you-- but-- the pie..."
She cups her cheeks in her palms to hide her blush and widening smile as you dig yourself deeper into this weird syntactical hole.
"It," you repeat, limply. "It. It's great. That's all."
She almost seems to be shaking as she gapes at you, but the ambiguity of candlelight makes it hard to tell.
"Well I guess you're okay, too..." you say, trailing off.
Mentally, you cringe and punch yourself in the face at the same time.
"I-- I have to go clean the dishes..." Mom says, excusing herself.
She practically dashes out of the room.
Then from the kitchen, over the sound of running water and banging pots: "not that I even cared what your opinion was in the first place! I was just making small talk!"
You roll your eyes, sigh, and lean back in your chair.
How weird your life has become. You can hardly believe it.
Reflecting on this, it isn't long before you doze off.
You have no idea how much later it is when mom comes back into the dining room and blows out the candles. This wakes you up briefly, but you pretend to still be asleep. The house is swathed in darkness, lit only dimly by street lamps shining through the curtained windows. Mom covers you with a quilt from the linen closet.
"You're great too..." she whispers. "...when you're not being such an idiot..."
It's a good thing she turns and heads for her bedroom when she does, because you can't stop yourself from smiling.
END OF EPISODE 6.